Back to Africa

What would await us, as we left a snowy Wrocław on our way to Marrakesh, Morocco?

I cannot remember what I expected or thought Morocco would be like. Unfortunately, like always, a lifetime of imagined scenes, stereotyped images, and interactions with people that do not exist are wiped away in the first moment of reality, never to be retrieved again.

Would we be shocked? Impressed? Disturbed?

I don't know. But even if we made it deep into the Sahara, it'd have to be some miraculous camel to beat this.

Blending In

Having had read the Lonely Planet and heard from friends the stories of sexual harrassment of Western women by Moroccan men, I had begged Marlena to go low key, not to draw attention to us as Westerners. A Mickey Mouse shirt and a trucker belt is the best she could do to lay low in the Arab world. Hopefully nobody would notice.

We checked into our 1 star hotel, and got acquiainted with what we would come to know as 'piping hot water' advertised by each hotel, a trickle of water at best. When paired with dirty squat toilets and no laundry, this guarantees that you return home smelling like a camel.

Incognito, we entered the gates of Djeema-el-fna, our first taste of Morocco...

74 seconds later

What the hell just happened?! One minute after entering the square Marlena was attacked by monkeys, I had a snake around my neck. We were dodging donkeys and mopeds to cross the square.

Recently I've begun worrying that I've seen too much, been to too many places, and that I can't be shocked by travel anymore. I wasn't ready for Djeema-el-fna. We stepped into a movie, except that here every sense is assulted, sight, sound, smell, and touch. I had no idea this kind of place existed, and could exist in today's world. In Toronto even your chihuahua better have a leash if you take it outside. So what about your cobra?

The Souqs

Endless narrow winding streets full of shoes, clothes and spices with everyone shouting "Friend, Friend!" Never before had I experienced such instant popularity. Make eye contact with even one shopowner and you battle to break free. With hundreds of years of practice, Moroccans are masterful salespeople. Using charm, guilt, pressure, anger, they will sell you what you don't want and don't need. You ask how much, they ask you what size you wear. You say no thanks, they say best price. You say goodbye and walk away, they say "Goodbye fucky man!" until the next time you walk by, and they invite you to their shop again.

My most successful techniques were telling them I'm Polish which seemed to sadden them, and basic Judo was useful too, because they will actually hold you in their shop by your wrist or shoulder. Henna? No thanks I said, not noticing that the woman had pulled up my shirt sleeve discretely and already henna'd my wrist. That's 20 dirham she said.


My favourite encounter...

(Marlena is looking at a pair of shoes and I'm in the store just hanging out)
Mohammed: I see you like shoes.
Tomek: No, actually. She wanted shoes. I don't.
M: You like brown shoes?
T: They're OK I guess.
M: What size you wear?
T: I don't want any shoes.
M: Yes. But what size you wear friend?
T: 44, but I don't want the shoes.
M: Ok. Here you go. You try now.
T: Ok, they fit, but I don't want them, remember? I don't want any shoes.
M: What is your best price?
T: What?
M: Give me best price.
T: But I don't want the shoes.
M: Ok, but if you wanted shoes, how much would you pay?
T: Ok. If theoritically I wanted the shoes, I'd pay 80.
M: 160.
T: What?
M: Give me better price. Give me last price.
T: I don't want the shoes.
M: But if you did.
T: 90.
M: You crazy man. I have family. 150.
T: No!
M: 140.
T: No
M: Come on.
T: No
M: 120. Last offer.
T: No!
M: Give me your last price today.
T: 100!
M: OK, sold. I put shoes in box for you.
T: OK, good....hey wait. I don't want the shoes!
M: Fuck you then American! Why you make trouble!




Fresh One? Fresh squeezed orange juice for 40 cents a glass.











Chameoleons. If you've got some bad luck, throw one into an open fire. If it explodes, your bad luck will end. However, if it only melts, you're still in trouble.

If you can't beat 'em, join 'em

Djeema-el-fna at night

Storytellers, lunatics, dancers, drummers. Djeema-el-fna takes on another life once the sun sets. It is the last bastion of storytelling. Entertainment before television and radio. Huge crowds gather around to hear the fables, sexual exploits and jokes in the square, moving from group to group, leaving money if satisfied.













Food stalls open up, serving such delicacies as grilled sheep head or brain, snails, seafood, and various teas. Foreigners are definitely the minority here, this circus having predated us and continuing to be mainly for residents.








My favourite. Fishing for cola. Harder than it looks, and that hash I just smoked didn't help.

Into the Sahara

Lured into the Sahara by a small tour operator we met outside of our hotel. I had paid the night before for 'local transport' and a camel trek and camping in the Sahara. We woke up to discover that local transport meant sharing a taxi with 7 people for 5 hours, driving further and further into nowhere, stopping along the way to take people's groceries to their village. We were promised that at the end of the ride, someone would be there to meet us. Sure enough, with nearly no English, a turbaned man meets us in a dirt parking lot, by the dirt road, in a dirt village populated with more donkeys than people. Tea is served, with lots of nodding and smiling followed with the sound of donkey's approvingly braying in the distance, and a distinct feeling creeping over...where the hell are we and how do we get out of this?



Where is everyone else I asked? "Where are the other tourists?" "Nobody else. Only you."

Is this where we die?





Signs of legitmacy. Another 30 minute car ride later in a rumbling beater of a car decorated with Persian rugs and a giant "TURBO" sticker covering most of the windshield. We are dropped off at the side of the highway where two camels and their handlers await. The handlers, each about 11 years old, sport impressive moustaches and speak only Berber and Camel. I had attempted to secretly arrange a camel for me and a donkey for Marlena, but was told the donkey would be 'tres fatigue' in the desert.

Sahara Nights

The sun sets over the Sahara, and we're led into a Berber tent, covered with carpets and candlelit. The atmosphere suddenly changes from comic to surreal, as the day continues to stretch, bend and twist and we are blanketed by the absolute silence of the desert. In the next room, our guide and others begin preparing a meal. The hash that we smoke helps to make this night incomprehensible, as minutes later a fire is lit and our guide and his friends begin playing traditional Berber desert music on drums and empty water canisters, taking breaks to light the pipe again.

Sahara morning

Time to play in the sand...

Bray for my Soul

Quite possibly we were lied to and told that the next bus was in the morning and if we wanted to, we could stay another day and explore the kasbah. I was promised that I could finally ride and beat a donkey. Not really having any choice, we stayed on the extra day and had a marvellous ride through the village. Swarms of children poured out following us and yelling "Bonjour". Any time I took out my camera, the majority of them would scream and take cover, running home, jumping behind lamp poles or just covering their heads. The braver ones, mostly boys, posed for us and gave us these great pictures, as well as their souls, which I have in a jar in my fridge.





















The gas pedal.


















Man. Donkey. Woman. The natural order.



























Small, poor, and dirty clothes. I had almost given him some money before I noticed he had a brand new laser. Nice try ,buddy.














Suddenly, the sky opened up and illuminated my donkey in all its glory. Why had I beaten this godly animal. Who was the real ass now?

Fes 1

20 hours on the bus later and we arrive in Fes. Fes is beautiful, perhaps older and more authentic than Marrakesh, but lacking the excitement and assult on the senses that Marrakesh offers. No cobras, not as many donkeys to dodge and not everyone was forcing us into their shops. Life here inside the walls of the medina is medieval. Not much has changed and people live as they did hundreds of years ago.


















Ali Babcia.
















Mere days after riding one in the desert, I sample a camel burger.









I can't believe it's not pacaderm.










Unfortunately I had been spotted, so this photo is not what it could have been. What you see here is the garbage truck. The garbage man, wearing his reflective safety vest, had ducked out of the picture. Our guide told us the streets of the medina are too narrow for any trucks or machinery, so garbage is collected early in the morning by donkey. This is really funny as long as you don't look at how sad the donkey is or just pretend this is Shrek.



The tanneries at Fes. Using ingredients such as cow brain, and pidgeon shit, they produce leather in the same manner that they have been for hundreds of years. Unfortunately, I'd already paid a guide to lead us here, not realizing that we easily could have just followed our noses from half a mile away.

Fes 2

Our next day was a rare warm one, full of sunshine. We escaped the confined medina for a breath of fresh air and climbed a neighbouring hill for a view of Fes.

















































Sheep brain and heads. A rare moment when I miss cabbage.

Chefchouan

Nestled in the kif growing regions of the Atlas Mountains is Chefchouan, a small secret village painted baby blue, long known by hippies as a place to chill out and get away from the stresses of Morocco's bigger touristy cities. While this was mostly true, signs of this changing were already present. As I've come to learn, anything in Lonely Planet that's advertised as 'out of the way', or 'off the main track' means that you've got about year to see it before they begin open 4 star hotels and a pizza hut. Also, you shouldn't pay more than 2 dollars for a gram of hash, not matter what the man is yelling at you in his living room while his wives are cooking dinner and his children are feeding you peanuts.






































The "I'm Having a Bad Hair Day" cat, stinking rich from the revenues of his poster monopoly, told me he'd moved to Chefchouan years ago to 'get away from it all.' I'm not sure that getting away from it all means smoking hash from a sisha all night and then paying two Moroccan prostitutes to dress like cheerleaders and dryfucking them to "November Rain", but it was still great to meet him and spend some quality time together.



I once read that the longer a couple are together, the more they begin to look alike. Bullshit.